


And the Avengers? They went home.

by Ants134



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29220426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ants134/pseuds/Ants134
Summary: The aftermath of the events in Sokovia is being felt across the globe, and the world is undoubtfully changed forever. Everybody must come to terms with what took place in their own way, and The Avengers are no exception.





	And the Avengers? They went home.

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this is my take on how each Avenger dealt with everything that went down with Ultron and Sokovia after they had returned home and were alone. Each Avenger will get their own chapter giving a little sneak peak into their post-combat lives. They probably won't be very long but eh. It was inspired by what Zemo said to Black Panther at the end of civil war, enjoy!

Coming home felt different this time. There was always a feeling of suspended reality after coming home again when you never thought you would. There was always a feeling of being lost, a sort of "well what now?" contemplation. And there was always guilt too, always guilt. But never like this. He slept for a long, dreamless time. That was to be expected of course, and Pepper made sure not to disturb him. She checked in on him from time to time, poking her head though the door and making as little noise as possible. She decided she was going to take it as a good sign. After New York he wouldn't sleep for days. But this wasn't New York. When he inevitably woke there was a whole cocktail of emotions that all hit at once. In fact, he wouldn't mind an actual cocktail. One in the afternoon was perhaps a bit early for a party drink, but it was past noon and the liqueur cabinet was nice and close. Whiskey it was. He drifted into the lab, as was the post-mission distraction ritual. He sat there on his work desk, crystal glass clenched a little too tightly in unsteady hands, looking around his workshop. He could feel the restlessness creeping into him already. The unrelenting need for a distraction that under normal circumstances he would only be able to find in incessant tinkering. If this was a normal "day after" he would pick up the closest unfinished project he could find and tamper away with it until his fingers bled and his hands were covered in band aids. But now he felt repulsed at that idea. The thought of creating anything else sent a shiver down his spine. So he just sat there for a while, hoping that the organized chaos that was his work space would offer the same calming qualities that it always had. But for some reason he didn't feel so at ease around robots anymore. His eyes locked onto the latest upgrade strung up in the middle of the workshop. Mark six thousand or whatever the hell he was up to by now. It had been an ongoing pain in his ass for a good few months at this point. No matter what he did he just couldn't get it to work the way it needed to. He put down his glass and stumbled over to it, tripping over various tools and bits of scrap that he had left haphazardly on the floor. It sat at perfect eye level to him. His hand closed around a wrench from a close by work bench, and he swung it. Loose bits and bobs went jangling to the floor, but the armour held up just like he designed it to. His pathetic little wrench achieved barely as much as a few scratches in the paint job, no matter how blindingly hard he swung it. So he tore it down instead. He ripped the whole damn thing from the rigging it was strung up on and tore it apart himself. He swept wires and tools and blueprints off of the benches and onto the floor, he threw his ridiculously expensive crystal glass into a wall and took joy in hearing it smash apart. None of it mattered at all, he couldn't give less of a shit if he tried. But no matter how many desks he flipped, it couldn't get rid of the acidic feeling eating away at his bones. It didn't matter how much he destroyed, because it couldn't uncreate. And it couldn't bring a city back.


End file.
